Moments
by SheWasFlying
Summary: When little colony!America was sick, England often provided as much comfort and care as a loving caretaker could provide. Centuries later, America returns the favor. Oneshot.


A/N: Just a random piece to indulge my fluff cravings. Brotherly fluff. Yes. Brotherly. Sorry, no slash here.

Disclaimer: SheWasFlying does not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, though she would dearly love to. Do you think they'd be willing to sell it to her for a couple of bucks and a stick of gum?

* * *

**Moments**

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_Late October, 1605_

America is crying again. England doesn't blame him. The boy is running a high fever, one that might be dangerous, even fatal, for a human child. For the little colony it is only a discomfort, but a debilitating one, and he is miserable.

When he isn't crying, the little one complains of aches in his joints and skin and of a sore throat. He rubs his churning tummy and whimpers when chills force his body into uncontrollable shivers. He sniffles and pouts and England can tell he is holding back an onslaught of sobs and fat tears. England cannot help but feel proud of his colony in these moments, when the lad displays this strength that is not physical, but just as admirable.

But right now, in _this_ moment, the lad is voicing his discomfort with no shame, though his crying is soft, raspy, quiet, which worries England further; America never does anything quietly. He is standing in the doorway to England's study, perfect little face flushed and turned upwards at the elder nation, who is seated at his desk. England isn't certain how America managed to make it all the way from his room to the study, as the little one has been have difficulty even moving across the room.

He imagines his colony toddling down the hall, unsteady on his chubby little legs, sniffling and crying and waiting for England's answer and receiving none.

England immediately regrets ever leaving America's side. The documents on his desk can wait. He leaves his seat.

America's arms reach up and he waits for the older nation to pick him up. He curls into England's hold and whimpers against his chest, blonde head pressed into the fabric of England's coat. England can feel the heat from the little body. It is an uncomfortable heat that pains him, even though he is not the one it is tormenting.

He lays a gentle hand against America's back, sings soft lyrics against the warm blonde hair and carries him from the room.

America is quiet. He relaxes in England's arms. It is the oddest thing, England thinks, that cool cloths and honeyed tea do not bring about the same results as simply holding the colony does. At least, not as quickly, and not as effectively.

He places the child in bed and carefully wipes his nose. Fluffs the pillow, strokes the soft hair, whispers tales of beautiful fairies and brave princes and little heroes.

He stays with the boy until the sun rises and the fever breaks. Days after the aches and nausea leaves him, America still needs England nearby to fall asleep. He believes England chased the sickness away and keeps it away. For a good while, England does not object.

The small colony is so precious to him. If being near to the little one brings him the most comfort, England would happily oblige him forever, had he been able to.

And if being in each other's presence brings comfort not only to America, but to the Empire as well, he does not admit it. Especially when he knows he will leave for home soon, and he will not be able to hold America again for a long, long time.

* * *

_Early November, 2012_

England used to hold him, back when he'd been just a tiny thing. America remembers this. England doesn't think he does, but the memories are there, far in the back of his mind. Remembering them is sort of like trying to see something far away without his glasses; they are small and blurry and kinda fade into the background, but he knows they are there. They're warm and nice.

Even if England knew, he would probably think that America does not appreciate the memories, or what England did for him. But America does. He appreciates everything England did for him when he was just a little colony.

There are also a lot of memories of England turning away. Memories of England brushing America's hugs off, of "For God's sake, America, act your age, you're not a child anymore," of England being far away for years and years. There are a lot of memories that do not sit well with America. But he still remembers those rare moments from when he was young and cute, cute enough to wring out the softness in a conquering Empire, and he appreciates them.

That doesn't mean he has to actually show his appreciation every time he sees England. Like the old man needs a bigger ego, yeah right.

But then there are moments like these …

He's been watching England for a few minutes. The old man doesn't know he's there, peering around the corner. America counts that as a victory; he can never sneak around England anymore without getting caught almost immediately. The old guy is leaning against a wall, head tilted back, arms limp at his sides. His brow is furrowed and his face is flushed. America's pretty sure he's got a fever, which sucks for the old guy, since they've both been in conferences all day long. He isn't sure how England managed to survive the conferences being as sick as he is.

Well, no. That's a lie. England's a strong guy. America knows this. England can and has survived a lot of shitty situations. And America can't help but feel pride at this. That's his England for ya.

Still, the poor guy must be miserable. Exhausted. Ready to collapse. Watching England try to move along the wall to his hotel room confirms America's suspicions, and America is certain the guy will pass out before he reaches his destination.

Well, if there was ever a time to show his appreciation, it's this time.

* * *

If England wasn't sick and miserable, he would beat America senseless for carrying him through the halls like a bloody fainting maiden. But he's so weak and tired right now that he can't even raise a hand to wipe his nose.

Someone else wipes at it with a tissue, relieving him of dripping boogers. He tries to open his eyes (when had he closed them?) to see who's there, watching him in this weakened state, but the voice that speaks stops him.

"Dude, you're so sick, it's nasty."

The nerve! That horrible, insensitive little-

"No, seriously, though, you look really bad, man. How'd you even _get _this sick? You been overworking yourself again? You shoulda stayed home. Y'know, maybe gotten some rest?"

The hand that presses gently against his burning forehead is cool and soft and very welcome. Then he hears America hiss and suddenly the hand is gone. The bed he's lying on shifts and a weight he hadn't noticed before is now gone from his side.

He finds this distressing. A moan escapes him before he can wrangle it in.

There is the sound of dripping water nearby. Footsteps. He feels America stroke his hair and hears a whisper, "Chill. I'm here for you, Artie."

The bed dips next to him. America lays a cool, wet cloth against England's forehead and gently adjusts his pillow. When England licks his dry lips, America tips the rim of a chilled water bottle against them and lets just enough water to trickle in.

England swallows and grimaces at the scratchiness of his throat. "America-"

"Nuh-uh, no talking, even if you're going to say how awesome I am." England opens his eyes in time to see America's grin. England scowls.

"You narcissistic brat."

"Ah, I know enough of Artie Talk to know that means 'Thank you, America, you awesome, handsome bloke, you!'"

"That is not-"

"You're welcome, old man!"

"Why, you little-"

It doesn't take long for England's throat to rebel and it hurts too much to talk. America uses this moment to force some foul medicine down his throat, which admittedly soothes to scratchiness. He remains silent as America chatters on and on, and uses facial expressions to transmit incredulity, amusement, shock and any response he may have to America's inane stories. After a while, America replaces the now hot cloth with another cold one. Droplets of cool water trickle down England's temples, soothing the burn away, slowly.

As he lays there, listening, occasionally dropping off to sleep only to wake to a still cheerfully chattering brother, he wonders if America remembers when England used to do this for him.

When it becomes too difficult to remain awake, England lets himself sink into sleep, as if he had a choice in the matter. He realizes, vaguely, that all his discomfort had lessened marginally, not since the medicine, but since he'd been in America's presence. He will not admit this to the Superpower. No.

He is vaguely aware of America rising and mentioning something about tea and honey and good ol' days before sleep takes him completely.

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A/N: Reviews and critiques very much appreciated. All reviewers will receive virtual chocolate cake and a glass of cold milk! How's that for incentive?

(Also, I just realized how similar this is to another one of my stories, "The Power of Thunder." Very similar. I may just combine them into one story later. Maybe on LJ. If you enjoyed this story, maybe you should check that one out, too? Just ignore the hopeful author here pushing you along...)


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